


Top Marks

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Comeplay, Dress Up, Established Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, Light Dom/sub, M/M, No ageplay though, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quick and Dirty, Rimming, Roleplay, School Uniforms, Sexual Roleplay, Smut, Spanking, Teacher/Student Roleplay, Uniform Kink, lockdown cockdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26844910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: Harry hasn't given the old teacher-pupil fantasy much thought until Kingsman's new patterns give his lover ideas.The classics, as Eggsy points out, are such for a reason.
Relationships: Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin
Comments: 17
Kudos: 142





	Top Marks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scandalmuss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scandalmuss/gifts).



> My first Kinktober offering! Way back in the summer I actually thought about properly doing it for the first time, but I was young and full of hope then. Nonetheless, it's a good month to try to bring you some kinky smut, but I'm following no prompt list nor posting schedule... so actually, if you can work out how that differs from my usual routine in any way, answers on a postcard and you might win a prize*.
> 
> This is also extremely mild kink for me but it ticks a good few boxes. I don't know where we're going from here so be prepared to adopt the brace position if warned. 
> 
> *You may not actually win a prize. I promised this fic to Scandalmuss back in...March? And here we are, at last.

Top Marks

Kingsman's Spring collection is quite tasteful, in Harry's humbly expert opinion. He's definitely going to venture into one of the new fabrics for his next suit and the accessories are just the ticket: he’s been waiting years for an automatically retractable electrified garotte, and the lemon-sorbet yellow is a good contrast for the navy.

Eggsy pulls a face as though his underwear has migrated somewhere uncomfortable.

"Nah. That's the same colours as my school tie." He hands it back to Dagonet. "Not gonna be able to wear it without thinking Mr Hudson's about to catch me having a roll up behind the sports sheds."

Harry doesn't catch himself before he snorts, nor before it turns into something like a grimace at his own predictability. 

"I'm not quite sure how I feel about the thought of you in school uniform." 

Because now, of course, he's pictured it, only for some godforsaken reason he can only attribute to the Ann Summers' window display they walk past on the way to the shop, the first image his brain assaults him with is of Eggsy in a short tartan skirt and knee high white socks, which is… 

Well. Not a lot better nor worse than anything more realistic, in that Harry responds much the same.  It's all just boringly tawdry and he doesn’t particularly want to shine any further light on it: he spent his own formative years boarded, after all, in uniform; all those significant firsts taking place before he was out of it, mostly with other boys wearing the very same. It was a highly hormonal time, of course, but he’d not consciously associated the dress code with any of those clumsy, feverish memories until now. 

"Wouldn't bother. Never really wore it properly anyway."

"Why am I not surprised?" Which, of course, explains the other twinge. Harry’s last detention was decades ago, now, but his frame of reference for trying to get Eggsy to conform to rules is much more recent. Thankfully no longer his problem. "God, I bet you were a pain in the backside."

"No more than me mates. Tended to get away with it 'cos when I did turn work in it was mint."

That, Harry can also well believe.  _ Brilliant without effort  _ could be most of Eggsy's life story, and as smitten as he is, Harry is bloody glad their relationship got him politely removed from Eggsy’s chain of command long before that became his problem. No wonder the image has struck such a chord.

Eggsy plucks the tie out of his hand with a distinct, almost ominous sense of purpose. 

"Classics are classics for a reason, Harry, you know that?"

"Hmm?" Harry’s aware his mind has wandered… is wandering, but the slow smile that sneaks onto Eggsy's face suggests it may have had company on the journey. He is right in front of Harry, and it is suddenly very evident that Dagonet is now on the other side of the room, though whether he had business to attend or could just see the conversation taking a turn for the hopelessly inappropriate, Harry was apparently too lost in his reverie to notice.

"Can just see you as the hot history teacher." 

"Sciences, I'll thank you."

"Oh, of course. Biology, yeah? You're the butterfly expert..." and he knows that's going somewhere but doesn't quite catch it before Eggsy grins. "You gonna teach me about the birds and the bees?"

He's a grubby little reprobate and it doesn't make the least bit of sense, but the gist is patently obvious and gets exactly the reaction he's after.  Harry can say, in all honesty, that before the last three minutes he’s never thought about it but in equal truth he knows Eggsy could ask him to roleplay a bin man in that voice and it would be the sexiest idea he'd heard in a week. The boy's ability to find the pulse of even the most ridiculous fantasy and shock it into life is unerring, helped only by his disconcertingly thorough grip on Harry’s turn-ons and the classics, as he so rightly points out, are usually such for a reason.

The shape of a scene is easy enough to sketch out in his mind and does it matter, really? The uniform has got to be the main draw, surely. Perhaps the setting. A couple of props. But the look… 

Eggsy knows his sales pitch is done because he’s got that deliciously smug smirk he gets on his face when he knows he’s got Harry on the hook for something fun; the tie is back in the showcase but Eggsy has ably pocketed the one from the drawer below without Dagonet spotting him and he’s absently licked his bottom lip because a deal like this can and should only be sealed with a kiss.

Half way to it, Harry has one of those distressingly sensible thoughts occur to him. 

"Can we pretend, for the sake of my conscience, that you went to sixth form?"

Eggsy laughs.

"My school didn't even  _ have  _ a sixth form, but sure. If it makes you feel better."

It does, fractionally, and Eggsy kisses him. 

***

Commandeering a well-furnished study at Headquarters isn’t nearly the drama one might expect: you confirm that the unexpected movement in the room is no cause for alarm, and nobody asks because most agents have been there, at some point or another; they’re only too glad you’ve spared everyone the embarrassment of someone coming to investigate mid-whatever it is you’re doing with whoever you’re doing it with in what obscure location in the middle of the night and turning it into some sort of mortifying sex Cluedo.

Costuming was equally easy. A tweed blazer over shirt and tie and plain trousers: smart, but he's approximating Eggsy’s teachers, not his own. The thicker rimmed of his reading glasses - doubly useful because they are civilian issue and therefore not apt to record or broadcast anything, and if anything drastic happens it will just have to fucking wait because his phone is off and his undivided attention is absolutely on Eggsy, who rolls in the door a satisfyingly predictable fifteen minutes later than arranged. 

It’s been just enough for the impatience to be creeping in alongside the anticipation, arousal forming like an anxiety, almost, this urgent tickling under the skin that draws into a bright ball of excitement right at the root of Harry's cock the moment he sets eyes on him. 

Everything, from top top bottom, is absolutely wrong.

Eggsy's hair's a scruffy mess, his tie is done up all wonky, his expression one of even cockier awareness than usual.  The shirt itself is cheap, so thin and pleasantly tight that the points of his nipples can just about be made out and Harry wants to lick them through the fabric, wet it so he can see them properly without undoing so much as another button; the cuffs rolled sloppily up to his elbows, baring the lightly tanned strength of his forearms and some crude biro scribbling on his arm, the bottom only tucked in enough to highlight quite how tucked in the rest isn’t. 

The trousers are just a wonderful disaster, and Harry would consider himself something of an expert on the subject, both in the sense that he has enough training to competently pass as a tailor and that he spends enough time looking at Eggsy’s arse and thighs to be able to knock him up a better fitting pair from memory. 

’Better’ being a little subjective in this exact moment, admittedly. The pair he has on are an inch too short and several inches... well, Harry wouldn’t say  _ too _ tight in context but the fabric’s so taut around the thickness of Eggsy’s thighs that he’d be in real danger of splitting seams if he sat down, of injuring himself if he squatted, and if the material was stretched any tighter around the beautiful swell of his arse you’d be able to make out individual stitching on his underwear.

If he were wearing any. Which he very obviously isn’t.

Gum snaps and pops, drawing the attention up to his mouth just in time for Harry to see the glimpse of wet pink as he turns it over between his smiling teeth. The character is absolute, doubtless absolutely accurate, and it gets Harry’s hackles up straight away. 

See, Harry's been a rule flouter all his life, but by subtle subversion: toeing the line so thoroughly in some aspects that nobody would credit his transgressions in others; maintaining pristine appearance whilst getting away with absolute - and later literal - murder. Blatant rulebreakers made his life difficult, ruined things for everybody, and Harry’d always been a little jealous, a little fascinated by what it would take to bring someone like that to heel. Wanted to try for himself, often, when he saw others failing to bring them under control. 

Whether he will be bringing Eggsy under control tonight is definitely in question, now, because Harry finds himself hopelessly, predictably distracted, much too much blood in his face and his cock and not enough in his brain. All the composure and presence he relies upon day to day dissolves completely in the face of this silly little ruse his lover's put them up to and his knees are doing something plainly silly, so he sits back down before he falls down, and lets Eggsy come to him. 

In absence of a script - there was very little preparation of any sort other than  _ dress up, meet here  _ and Harry wonders if he might start regretting that -  Harry lets Eggsy lead the charge.

"Mister Hart. Sir." He says it like a greeting but the wheedle is artfully obvious and he makes it doubly so with the solicitous swing of his hips as he wanders up to the desk, as if it's casual when _I want something_ is screaming from every line of his body.

"Got yourself in trouble again, Unwin?"

"Forgot some coursework," he shrugs, a smile that implies it could well be all of it, if the coursework existed, and Harry wouldn't be surprised. "I heard maybe if I came to you I might be able to get my marks improved a little bit?"

Harry resists the urge to pick up the pun by asking if he's been turning up to form room with lovebites again: no need to project his own long lost teenage years. 

"Is that the sort of reputation I have around here?"

"Nah. But I seen the way you look at me." Eggsy picks up the end of Harry's tie and starts to fiddle with it, fingers wrapping in it drawing him subtly closer unless Harry wants to fight it and choke himself and it's hard enough to breathe as it is. Eggsy does a wonderful job of doing a terrible job of playing coy, all bitten lip and heavy, lowered bedroom eyes and Harry feels hot and guilty for wanting him all over again. "Is there something I can do for you?" 

It wouldn't do to show quite how weak he is for this too early. 

"You can take that gum out of your mouth, for a start."

"You gonna put something else in it?"

Harry chooses to ignore that, for now, because he knows he's not supposed to ignore the complete hash Eggsy has made of dressing himself. It was half the point, he supposes, considering it was the flouting of uniform rules that got them started on this idea, however much it might have warped along the way. And Eggsy knows how deeply, how viscerally it affects Harry to see someone as beautiful, as well sculpted as him presented so badly… however good he knows it looks. 

"No wonder you're slipping. Do you know what would have happened if I'd turned up to lessons looking like that?" Eggsy just raises his eyebrows and waits. "They had a cane. An actual cane." And god knows Harry watched them take it to enough of his peers who were too thick or too cocky to at least pretend to follow the rules. 

"Well, that went alright, didn't it. None of you turned out perverts, or nothing." 

"I should spank you just for that."

The gum pops; the chin tilts.

" Go on then." 

Well, that's moved along quicker than he'd imagined. For he best, too, because Harry is quickly running out of lines; isn’t sure if he's really playing a character anyway. 'A uthority figure, caught up in helpless frustrated lust for this infuriating, stunning boy and suddenly presented with a very clear green light and everything he wants on a platter to spread out nicely on his desk' is not exactly a stretch for his acting skill other than that he scene is deliberately so cliché as to be ridiculous, but a lot of their favourites are: both of them are perfectly able to suck cock with tongue in cheek.

“Trousers down.” They’ll split under the slightest pressure, which would be a decent excuse if Eggsy was going to ask for one, which he isn’t because he does in fact want to be at least partially naked and Harry is, in fact, thinking about it too much. 

Fortunately he’s prevented from doing any further thinking for several minutes by the baring of Eggsy’s arse. Eggsy pulls his shirt up to his waist when he pulls his trousers down, so when he bends over the desk Harry’s got the full and beautifully framed picture from the mole-flecked dip of his lower back to the fair fuzz on the backs of his thighs; Harry puts his hands to Eggsy’s waist where his thumbs rest in those divine divots either side of Eggsy’s spine and brushes his fingertips over the swell of his arse, reverent and instinctive, absolutely nothing to do with what they’re doing but he can’t help it. Eggsy wriggles into the touch. He's horny, too, gratifyingly into this and Harry isn't sure why that's much of a revelation: this would have been an inordinate amount of effort to go to if it were _just_ for Harry's titillation, after all. 

The wooden ruler is cool between Harry's fingers, tacky where the varnish is aging . Without any further warning, he  thwacks it against Eggsy's arse and with a satisfying smack it bounces right off. In an instant, the oblong of his skin it made contact with blares up bright pink. 

Eggsy rumbles something like a laugh but there's more delight in it than mockery, and shuffles his feet into a slightly wider stance.  Harry has to do the exact same on the other side, just to even the redness up and Eggsy jolts with it, makes a little noise through his nose. 

"Is that too hard?"

"Nah, it's fine." Eggsy is breathy, like he's surprised by just how fine it is. It isn't his first playful spanking but Harry's never used anything but a hand on him, and he knows how different it is. Quicker - a flash of a sting without the longer heat of skin impact, and Harry doubts a light little wooden ruler will carry even the pain that a smack with his hand does.

So he does it again, a little harder, and Eggsy's backside jiggles and pinkens, warming with every strike, the little huff noise he makes sounding nothing like distress. Depending on where Harry places the blow sometimes the muscle jumps and he does his best to create a pattern, spreading the hits across the area but making sure to favour a couple of spots so that there will be bruises for them both to enjoy later. 

It's almost hypnotic, so he carries on, tuning out everything but the satisfying slap and the shuddery chuckle of Eggsy's breathing until the sounds reverberating through the desk have dropped into p anting, Harry's hand is buzzing from the impact and almost all of the once pale skin of Eggsy's bottom is a delicious shining pink.

"I think that's enough."

"...I could go a little more."

"It's alright, you don't need to-"

"No, I mean-" Eggsy clears his throat. His voice is wonderfully gravelly, and now Harry unhitches his laser focus from the stripes he's marked across Eggsy's backside he can see the the flush on the back of his neck, the way his shirt is plastered down with sweat in the middle of his back and his upper body weight is dropped almost languidly into the desk.  "How naughty do I have to be to get some more of that? I could stick my gum to the back of this desk…"

"That will not be necessary." To be asked would always be enough, but the idea that he wants more - and not more as in to move forward but more pain, such as it is - frazzles Harry's brain in a way he is entirely unprepared for. Eggsy looks almost wanton, spread and wrecked already and Harry was far too absorbed in Eggsy's arse, not for the first time, to notice quite the effect it's had on him.  Naturally, it goes to his head.  "Let's say fifty? You can count them in tens. And thank me."

"Oh, we're doing that one?"

"Problem, Unwin?"

"No sir! Not at all, sir."

Harry's not sure if it should worry him that he's almost painfully hard himself but it's not so much the spanking - and it's not as though it really  _ hurts _ , let's face it - as the resistance of Eggsy's inimitable peach of a backside, and the fact he knows he's about to get to fuck it; the way Eggsy moans and chuckles into the smacks, that pleasure-pain dichotomy indistinguishable in his noises, and perhaps in his experience because he's obviously molten for it. Harry can't see Eggsy's cock but he can read it in the writhed dip between his shoulders, the unconscious canting of his hips which he'd misread as being a reflex to the impact of the ruler.  Five rounds of ten smacks and Eggsy's chalky, intoxicating _"twenty, thank you sir, ah - fuck! Ah. Thirty,"_ which is undoubtedly harder for Harry to administer than it is for Eggsy to bear: somewhere amongst that number the percussive bouncing thwack ceases to be a novel sensation, passes through delight and into being the one thing delaying what he wants. 

"Fifty, thank you, sir."

Harry makes it forty nine, actually, but there's no cheek to indicate it's a deliberate slip and to call Eggsy on it would dictate further punishment. Besides, Harry's far too hot and aroused to be confident in his own count, sweating under his tweed, jealous of Eggsy's thin cotton and beautifully striped bare arse and desperate, so desperate, to make the most of the way it's presented to him.

He brushes the pad of his thumb down the very centre from coccyx to balls and feels Eggsy shudder as he glances his hole, his hips shifting. He does it again, and Eggsy settles his feet further apart. For the avoidance of feeling like a creep in this particular silly scenario, and just because it's one of Harry's favourite experiences in the world, it really would be lovely if Eggsy begged. 

It only takes a few more dry, lingering strokes of his fingers and Eggsy has bottom pushed out and swaying just ever so slightly side to side.

"C'mon." 

“Ask me properly, Unwin." 

"Please, sir." That there... a man could get used to that. "Please. Fuck me. I -" Harry hears Eggsy swallow. "I've done my punishment. I'll be good. Please."

That shouldn't go straight to Harry's prick the way it does, but clearly Eggsy is into it, striding out ahead wherever this fantasy has taken him and Harry is not about to argue. Nor tease: he considers it, but as soon as he pushes one lubed finger into Eggsy's hole it becomes clear that he's largely done the prep work himself and before Harry can muster the intellect to compose an in-character jibe about that he finds he's already unzipped, slicked up and pressed himself between those gorgeously flushed cheeks. He holds them in his hands as he slowly eases his bare cock into Eggsy's body, gripping the muscle and feeling the sore heat against his palms.

Eggsy moans, long and low. It's a lot to take without the long fingering warm ups they're usually partial to but that seems to fit, somehow, with the mood they've created. He's surprisingly quiet as Harry starts to draw back and fuck into him again, save for the odd appreciative little whimper and Harry wonders if he might finally be within reach of fucking the cheek out of him.

Thankfully not: he grits out another pleasing grunt or two but as soon as Harry slows down Eggsy's grinding back and jibing at him, his flaming skin nudged flush to Harry's hips and something sarcastic with the word _'sir'_ dripped into it that Harry doesn't even hear amidst the white noise of mounting pleasure and need, the thrumming wordless instinct from the back of his brain that makes him pick up the pace, drive in harder even though he can barely stand it.

It's obviously welcome if the hiss from Eggsy is any measure, or the way he presses himself up from the desk on one hand so he can look back over his shoulder at Harry, hair flopping in his darkened eyes, lips bitten swollen and for fuck's sake, Harry had forgotten about the fucking tie and the undone collar and it nearly does him in then and there. Somehow it manages to be the sluttiest thing about the whole picture: not the pose, not the bedroom eyes, not the arse in the air, trousers round the ankles nudity but the vestiges of his 'uniform' and Harry cannot bear to look. He punishes Eggsy, instead - fitting, he feels - by withdrawing as much as he can without quite losing the breach of Eggsy's body with the tip of his cock and dribbles more lube along the length, and sliding back home at whatever pace he damn well pleases.

After that the fucking's so slick he almost slips right out of him bouncing off his beautiful pink backside and Harry guards against that by ramming in to the hilt and staying there as best he can for a minute, just circling his hips, shifting rather than thrusting. He's grossly, grossly misjudged his own staying power, missed the way his excitement was bubbling along whilst he was focused on Eggsy, on not hurting him, on hurting him just enough, on his body and his responses and now that body is maddeningly hot around him and Harry doesn't have a hope in hell of lasting through to fuck Eggsy to climax.

So he doesn't try. It might play as part of the role, if Eggsy likes, because the pace Harry takes up riding into Eggsy's arse then is punishing, his hands gripping his hips mostly to protect them from the edge of the desk but likely leaving bruises of their own as Harry hammers into him mercilessly, earning a few wonderful choked attempts at speech but not really paying them much attention once he's caught in the comet-tail of his own orgasm. It blazes through him quickly, just long enough to make the most of, nowhere near long enough to give Eggsy any real consideration, nor warning, just a heavy sigh with the bliss of release as he pulses it into Eggsy's tense body.

Serves him right for cheeking his superiors, Harry supposes.

Once he's recovered a couple of breaths and fully savoured the wet clench and the stilted attempts not to swear at him - perhaps Eggsy _is_ learning - Harry withdraws and drops to an easy kneel, his fingers splayed to grip Eggsy's arse cheek where the stripes are just beginning to fade back into a flush; the pad of his thumb in the indent between the base of his spine and his hole that seems to be designed for exactly this. To keep him gently spread apart whilst Harry ducks and licks an escaping drip of his come from the skin. Spots another, and bends to catch it on then tip of his tongue and licks up the path it rolled down, right from the damp crease of his thigh up to where Eggsy's still flared open and dips his tongue inside.

" _Ohhh_ you fucking filthy-"

"Language," and a tap with the ruler and Eggsy whimpers himself into silence, surely not in response to that little swat so it must be for the feel of Harry’s tongue softly tucking into him. He's loose and wet, tastes of plastic and salt, and it's easy to push properly in; for Harry to fuck Eggsy so gently with the very tip of his tongue and he knows that's got to be unbearable, he can felt it right through Eggsy's body, in the twitch of his hole, the way his inner thighs tremble. Nothing's going to make Harry rush this, though. Eggsy's whickery breathing is exactly the right encouragement for Harry to take his time dragging his tongue up Eggsy's perineum and into him, lapping up his own come until there's no more evident in dripping and Eggsy's whining and jiggling his knee, a nd finishes with a bite that's just a scrape of teeth over the globe of Eggsy's arse cheek. 

“Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes, yes sir.”

“Will you do as you’re told?”  _ Will you ever  _ and Harry wouldn’t have it any other way, honestly.

“Yes.  _ Yes. Please.” _

Harry doesn’t move, doesn’t stop the soft intimate kissing other than to speak and the shaking in Eggsy’s legs is getting more violent by the second.

“Make yourself come, then.”

“Fuck.” And Eggsy almost knocks Harry over getting his hand on his cock, and it's barely seconds before he's swearing softer, shoulders pushing back and head lolling as he comes over his fist and the edge of the desk.

The cuddle in the afterglow - Harry lounging in the desk chair with Eggsy still strategically both dressed and undressed in his lap - is brief, and sweaty, and the clean up is arduous although Harry adds the wiped-down ruler to the pencil pot on the desk with no small degree of relish.

“I’ve remembered how grateful I was never to be involved directly in any of your training.”

Eggsy settles on pulling his trousers up, but not without a wince of total disgust. “I’ve remembered why I usually say no to anywhere that ain’t got a _en suite_.”

"That's what you get for wearing polyester."

"Well I'm not gonna be wearin' 'em again if that's what it gets me." He rubs at his bruising bum for emphasis.  "Be wearing these for a couple of days." 

His eyebrows tell an entirely different story and Harry fully suspects he will be asked to photograph any marks that last the duration of the journey home and a shower so that they can admire them together, probably after he's finished admiring them some more in the flesh.

An _extremely_ thorough shower, because second only in the entertainment stakes to the vivid technicolour memory of Eggsy's arse striped with bright scarlet and the sunset hints of bruising that may or may not ever blossom, spread wide and dripping come, is the look on his face when he tries to walk with too-tight trousers and no underwear and the inevitably tacky residue of come, lube,saliva and the babywipes Harry cursorily cleaned them up with.

He wouldn't be having this problem in the skirt and the knee high socks, is all Harry's going to point out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Hasn't it been the weirdest time? If I could make you smile, then that's made me smile, so please do consider taking a moment to let me know. 
> 
> [twitter ](https://www.twitter.com/agentsnakebite) and [ tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/randomactsofviolence) !


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